Transcribed from F. J. Sypher
THE HEATH
Ah, gentle flower! on which the wind
Delays, as if it loved delay;
I ask of thee no wreath to bind,
I take no blossom from thy spray:
I only breathe upon thy bloom,
And ask it, for my sake, to bear
A message on its faint perfume,
Afar amid its native air.
Slight are the links that waken thought,
And slight are those I trust to now;
Yet by that soft flower may be brought
The memory of a broken vow!
E’en as thy soft hues fade away,
So fadeth love! so doth the heart
See, in a single hour, decay
All that was once its loveliest part.
Ah! fairy blossoms! tell my love,—
Or he who once was love of mine,—
How can the conscious heaven above
Upon such utter falsehood shine.
Tell him, that since he left my fears,
To bear with all that absence bears,
I have but thought of him with tears;
I have but breathed of him in prayers.
I loved him, like an eager child,
That knows not how it loves, or why!
My spirit brightened when he smiled;
I never gave him cause to sigh,—
Yet loved with woman’s fondness too,
That knows it is her life she gives;
Deep, earnest, passionate, and true,
The love that in the spirit lives.
